It’s six thirty;
I haven’t got long,
And I’m running late,
And if I don’t time it right
I’ll get three strides outside my door
And get caught in a tropical storm
That will stream through the seams
Of my clothes and swell my equilibrium
Until I can’t tell which way is home,
Or the clouds will part and sunburn
Will turn my tender skin into crackling
And peel it and eat out the meat of me
Leaving me less dressed than a crab
That was grabbed by a starving man.
And the wind’s stronger than it was
And longer than it should rightly be;
With a chill that spills into the cracks
Of your backbone and only leaves
You alone once it’s grown over you.
And I can understand changes
To the climate and an increase
In seasonal disagreements,
But the rapid action of this
Current batch of conditions
Is enough to force even
The best well wishers
To support more
Stability.
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